


To See Another Day

by OneofWebs



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arguing, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Clothed Sex, Corvo Bianco (The Witcher), Emotional Sex, Emotions, Established Relationship, Frottage, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Minor Injuries, Porn with Feelings, Romance, Rough Kissing, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24806122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/pseuds/OneofWebs
Summary: It could have just been a failed job, but then Jaskier tries to use himself as bait to ensure that it's not. He's fine, but only for the fact that Geralt steps in to rescue him, at the expense of his own well-being. It's then that Geralt realizes something about mortality that he's never quite realized before; he won't lose Jaskier before it's time, and he intends to show that off.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 316





	To See Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> I had this urge to write gross old married couple smut, so I just went for it. I hope it rots a few teeth, at least. Enjoy!

The rage was just building. Every second away from the scene, every _step_ that Roach took was just another moment where Geralt could be angrier. He shouldn’t be angry. Really, he should have just let the idiot die and have saved himself the trouble now and in the future. _He_ was wounded, now, and the idiot was perfectly fine. Not entirely fine. Geralt knew that, but he was too angry to see it in the way that he should have. They were right back to where they’d started—Jaskier walking while Geralt rode, but Geralt was riding too fast for Jaskier to keep up. That was new.

Jaskier was thankfully quiet, but he was building just as much as Geralt was. It wasn’t anger, though. Geralt was fuming so hard there might as well have been smoke trickling out of his ears. Jaskier’s was a quiet sort of upset. He could replay the scene over and over in his head and not come up with a better outcome. Maybe he wasn’t tactically minded or particularly skilled in battle like Geralt, but that didn’t mean he was entirely without understanding. There had been no other way, and as far as he knew, they’d just walked away from a success.

He was sure he hadn’t done anything wrong. Geralt, on the other hand, had a white-knuckled grip on the reins and his teeth were gritted together. He was angry. To him, everything had gone wrong. The fact that he was sporting an injury didn’t bother him. Injuries never bothered him. It was the fact that this very same injury could have been on Jaskier, had Geralt been even a step closer. Geralt knew how to turn his body, how to deflect. He knew the timing of it. Battle was like a dance, and he’d been practicing it for years.

This same wound on Jaskier would have killed him. Maybe years ago, Geralt wouldn’t have cared, but Jaskier mattered. Jaskier mattered to him. Jaskier mattered to Ciri. Jaskier had a _place_ , and in that brief moment, Geralt had seen him try and throw that place away for nothing. Geralt failed jobs all the time. Some jobs didn’t even exist—sometimes monsters, sometimes coins, but rarely both. This could have been one of those moments, but Jaskier saw himself so helpful and so much more than he should be.

Geralt would never think Jaskier was nothing. Even in the beginning years, he’d been _something_. But he was trying too hard to be things that he wasn’t, and it was going to get him killed. That was the last thing Geralt wanted. To see Jaskier killed. To watch that scene play over and over in his mind, only worse. If he hadn’t made the right steps. Jaskier would have been dead—the idiot, thinking to use himself as bait. They could have just failed, moved on, and found the next town. The next job. There was always _more_.

“Geralt—would you please slow down? I can’t—”

That was it. The last straw. Geralt couldn’t take this. Jaskier didn’t see what he was. He didn’t _care_ about what he was. And he acted like it. Reckless. Ridiculous. Troublesome. An idiot, always an idiot. Geralt couldn’t take it. Not for a second longer. Not a moment. Not a breath.

“You almost died!” Geralt shouted, yanking Roach to a stop. In one swift movement, he swung his leg over the side of her and dropped down to the ground. “Do you understand that? You could have died back there!”

“Wait, wait—Geralt.” Jaskier shook his head furiously, raising up his hands in a defensive motion. Like Geralt was going to hurt him. And that just made it all worse.

Geralt didn’t want to hurt him. He’d thought he’d spent the last few _years_ showing off how much he didn’t want to hurt Jaskier. How much he didn’t want to see Jaskier hurt. If Jaskier didn’t believe him, then he just had to keep proving it. He’d thrown away the pretenses he’d had before. He _could_ feel, and he felt everything.

Geralt grabbed Jaskier by the shoulders, pushing him back until he hit a tree. Jaskier’s eyes were wide, his lips parted. He looked up. He looked at Geralt’s eyes, just as wide, and must have seen exactly what Geralt knew what he would see. It was enough that he lowered his eyes and gulped.

“You almost _died_ ,” Geralt said again quieter.

“But I didn’t,” Jaskier argued, just as quiet. “You—”

“What if I hadn’t? What if I hadn’t been able to get to you?”

“Well, _you_ _’re_ fine, so—”

“I’m _used_ to this,” Geralt pressed, squeezing his fingers just a bit harder. “You? You would have—you would be dead, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat. He understood it, now, in the desperation of Geralt’s grasp on him. Like Geralt was trying to convince himself that Jaskier _wasn_ _’t_ dead.

“You can’t do things like that. I bring you because you want to come, but if I’m putting you in danger—” Geralt shook his head. He couldn’t meet Jaskier’s eyes, not as they continued to fall. Not as Jaskier continued to understand. This wasn’t anger. This was anything but anger.

“Geralt…” Jaskier tried, ever so quietly.

“I cannot lose you,” Geralt rasped, and that was the end of it.

One touch of Jaskier’s fingertips, his _trembling_ fingertips, and Geralt felt something snap. He closed the space between them in an instant, his hands rushing from Jaskier’s shoulders to his face. The kiss was fast, and it was fire. Their faces smashed together, their lips, each of them sucking on heavy inhale of breath just to make sure there was still something between them—air, a promise, anything. And there was. So much of it. Jaskier trailed his fingers along Geralt’s cheek, the scratches and the open, bleeding cuts. Geralt just held him still. Held him close like he _mattered_ , because he did.

They kissed, heads tilted, tongues pressed. So wrapped up in each other they forgot the world, forgot where they’d just come from. It didn’t matter. As much as Jaskier could have died, he didn’t, and Geralt could level with that in the moments of clarity that came between their lips, pressed together in a heavy, heated moment of desperation. Jaskier tasted like honey; Geralt tasted a bit like blood, but Jaskier kissed him anyway. Held around his jaw to pull him closer, keep him close.

When they pulled apart, Jaskier sucked down a shuddering breath and let his eyes open slowly, like he was waking from a particularly frightening dream and hoped not to see anything from his mind standing out in front of him. When he opened his eyes, he just saw Geralt. Geralt was an alright thing to see.

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasped. “You’re hurt. We need to get to town. Let me—” he swallowed. “Let me bandage you.”

Geralt nodded. “You ride with me,” he said. It was the only olive branch he knew how to extend, and Jaskier took it.

Geralt held on in the way that he always did, in which nothing appeared to be wrong, but Jaskier could feel the labored breathing against his back. As they rode, Geralt seemed weaker and he sat less straight. He leaned into Jaskier’s shoulder for support; halfway through the ride, he’d even given the reins to Jaskier to hold so that he could, instead, ground himself with a hard grip on Jaskier’s hips. It was only a miracle that he arrived at the town still sitting on a horse.

Once they arrived, it was an easy thing to get Geralt down to his feet. By this point, his breathing was beginning to level, which meant things were moving right along in some positive fashion. Geralt healed faster than any man Jaskier had seen. He’d bandage him because it was the right thing to do, not because he would be dead by morning, otherwise. That, and it made Jaskier feel useful. It made him feel like he was along on these journeys for something more than his own incessant desire to be on them.

Jaskier did all of the talking. Thankfully, Geralt’s wounded state saved them the normal Witcher charge on a room; they paid something Jaskier might have even considered a relatively normal rate. They only intended to stay the night, after all. There was no reason for them to be in this town, other than the fact that it had a nice room with a warm fireplace and some food for them to eat. Just a moment’s rest.

There was a bit of work in dragging Geralt up the stairs to that room with a warm fireplace and an easy place to rest, but once that was done, Jaskier helped him to sit on the first available surface. The room was a bit larger than they’d been intending, but Jaskier hadn’t wanted to argue the logistics. He just needed a room so Geralt could rest. He rested, now, on a couch, hunched over with an arm wrapped about his own waist.

“It’s certainly not Corvo Bianco,” Jaskier rattled, “but it’ll do for the night.”

“Is that where you want us to go next?” Geralt asked. He watched as Jaskier flitted through their things to find the bandages. Geralt thought it was unnecessary—the worry. If it’d been a slightly more dramatic wound, then maybe. As it were, all he needed was to rest.

“Why would we not, hm? Seems the best place to head after a successful hunt. You do own the place, do you not?”

Geralt cracked a smile. He took water when Jaskier offered it and drank. Their conversation ended quickly as Jaskier found the bandages and got to work. Jaskier was a nervous talker, but there was always a point in the nervousness where he was too frightened to actually speak, and this was one of those moments. So long as Geralt cooperated, Jaskier had nothing to say. It was just a dance to get the armor off and away so Jaskier could properly inspect the wound.

As Geralt suspected, it wasn’t as bad as Jaskier thought. Or, as bad as he believed Jaskier to think. Jaskier still nibbled at his bottom lip as if he were worried and began to wrap around Geralt’s torso without hesitation. All Geralt could do was sit there and watch. He raised his arms when he needed, and he shifted when he needed.

All he could do was watch the way Jaskier looked. So focused. So intent. So _nervous_. Geralt had shouted that Jaskier had almost died, but Jaskier must have felt the same way about him. That he had almost died. Maybe he had almost died. Really, he hadn’t been paying all that much attention. All he’d known was that Jaskier _was_ going to die, and he couldn’t let that happen.

“Why do you want to return to Corvo Bianco?” Geralt suddenly asked. Jaskier’s fingers only hesitated for a moment.

“It’s been awhile,” Jaskier replied vaguely. He continued to wrap, working now around Geralt’s chest to ensure the bandages stayed in place.

“But why?” Maybe Geralt just wanted to hear him say it. There was something that he could see in Jaskier’s eyes that he so desperately wanted to hear him say.

Jaskier didn’t look at Geralt as he finished the wrappings. Instead, he just sat back on the low table and stared at the seams of the bandage. Already, blood was soaking through.

“Julian,” Geralt said, and that caught his attention. Jaskier still didn’t look at him, but his shoulders shook. “Do you want to go home?”

Jaskier looked at him, then. Jaskier looked at him with his eyes half-squinted with _something_. Geralt couldn’t quite place what it was, but he knew it didn’t look pained. That’s all he cared about—that Jaskier didn’t hurt. They’d both done enough of that; it was time for something different.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said again. He didn’t know what it was that spurred something. Maybe his voice had cracked. Maybe his face had squinted up in that same strange _something_ that Jaskier’s had. Geralt didn’t know. And maybe it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was Jaskier’s slow surge forward, careful as he placed his hands on Geralt’s jaw and more careful as they kissed. It took only the briefest tilt of the head for the kiss to deepen, for Geralt to suddenly wind his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and pull him closer. He rested his other hand on Jaskier’s side, bringing him off the table. Another shift and Jaskier was bracing himself on the back of the couch, leaning deeper into the kiss with a knee between Geralt’s spread thighs.

“It’s like you can’t die,” Jaskier whispered when they pulled apart, only a breath left between them and their foreheads pressed together.

“You can,” Geralt stated. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you.”

Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat. They moved together, kissing again. Their tongues entangled just as Geralt wrapped both arms around Jaskier’s waist. He hauled him up, them both up, despite the complaining strain in his side. In one, fluid movement, Jaskier’s back was pressed down into the couch, and Geralt was hunched over top of him, braced with one hand on the back of the couch and one foot pressed into the floor. Their kiss had never broken. It was deeper now, if anything, as Jaskier buried his fingers in Geralt’s hair and stroked thumbs along his jaw.

Geralt knew what he wanted, and he made it clear as he began to tug at Jaskier’s shirt. He just wanted it up; when Geralt got his hand on Jaskier’s skin, Jaskier gasped into their kiss. Kissed deeper. He wrapped his arms around Geralt’s neck instead to pull him closer, and Geralt fell into him. He pressed his hands, both of them, into Jaskier’s stomach just to feel the warmth of him. Alive. Breathing. _Here_. Geralt so desperately needed him.

When they pulled apart, it was with another hard gasp from Jaskier’s lips as Geralt’s touch ghosted over his chest. His shirt was pushed up too far, too stretched, but that wasn’t Jaskier’s concerned. He was too busy looking at Geralt, carding fingers through his hair.

“I want you,” Geralt rasped.

Jaskier shuddered. “We can’t.” Still, he denied. “You’re a mess. I haven’t bathed in—I don’t even want to know—” Jaskier cut off when Geralt kissed him again. Hot and heavy and with the sharp intake of breath through his nose.

“I don’t care how,” Geralt grumbled right into his lips, “but I must have you.”

Jaskier just nodded helplessly. What was he supposed to say? He wanted Geralt just as bad, even if it couldn’t be what either of them needed. What he _needed_ was Geralt naked, flush against him and rocking into him. He needed to feel Geralt’s cock inside of him. Fucking him open, fucking him _deep_. It’d been so long since they’d had a chance, and now, Jaskier was craving it.

There would be time when they got _home_. For now, Geralt took what he could have. He didn’t even bother with their trousers—to eliminate the need as best he could. He grabbed Jaskier’s legs and hiked them up, resting them on his hips. Jaskier did the rest as he hooked his ankles and rolled his hips. Geralt groaned in response, dipping down to press their lips together once more as his own hips bucked.

Even through the layers of clothing, Geralt could still feel the twitch in Jaskier’s cock. His own was already hardening. Just rutting against Jaskier had every nerve in his body already on fire, and he wanted _more_. He kissed Jaskier harder, parted his lips with his tongue and lapped into Jaskier’s mouth just to feel the way he jerked and shifted. Jaskier moaned into their kiss, his jaw falling open. Geralt kissed him still, just moving them together. Fighting the pain in his side just to have this.

He needed it. Needed this. Geralt pulled his hands back to just press them against Jaskier’s neck, to cup his jaw. He pressed them so close together that their breath synced, their hips moved in tandem.

“Geralt—” Jaskier gasped. His hands jolted down to grab Geralt by the waist, using the leverage to roll his hips.

“When we get _home_ ,” Geralt rasped, his voice breaking just as their cocks pressed together, “I’ll take care of you.”

“You always do.” Jaskier groaned, then, rolling his head back.

Geralt moved just like he would, just like Jaskier _knew_ he would if they were naked, wrapped around each other in their own bed. Jaskier closed his eyes and he could imagine it, even as every thrust reminded him how clothed they were. He could feel the rough fabric of his own trousers, hear the way their clothes moved together, but it didn’t matter. He could feel Geralt’s aching cock through all of it, and that was enough to have Jaskier moaning and digging his fingernails into Geralt’s sides.

As Geralt ground their hips together, he nosed along Jaskier’s jaw and kissed whatever skin he could reach. Jaskier’s blessed collar was in the way, but his shirts and doublet were never done up properly. Geralt could kiss down the column of his throat, all down the front of it until he was hunched over, sucking over the protrusion of Jaskier’s collarbone. Jaskier’s back arched, and the _sound_ he let out had Geralt shuddering. He hooked an arm under Jaskier’s back and pulled.

Jaskier helped as best as he could, as long as they didn’t have to pull apart. Geralt sat back into the arm of the couch, Jaskier in his lap, and they fell together in the perfect rhythm. They kissed, and Jaskier worked his hips, now. He rolled them forward, grinding their cocks together as best he could. Geralt kept a tight grip on his hips, groaning as the pleasure took him. Jaskier’s entire body trembled above him. Jaskier’s hands were over his. Their hips rutting together. Their _kiss_.

Geralt couldn’t even bring himself to feel ashamed of this. This was the best they could have, and it was the _best_. Jaskier’s back arched again, and Geralt kissed the sliver of skin revealed by the parting of his collar. That was enough. Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s head and wrenched it back so they could kiss again—harder, this time. Jaskier’s hips stuttered as their tongues touched, their teeth clacked. Geralt didn’t even try to calm him, just spurred him on by rutting his hips back.

Suddenly, Jaskier let out a shuddering moan, right against Geralt’s lips. That was it. His body shook, and his fingers dug into Geralt’s shoulders hard enough to hurt. Geralt kissed him through his orgasm, still working his hips. He pulled Jaskier close as those last spasms shook through him, wrapping his arms around him. He held Jaskier with one hand behind his neck and one resting on the small of his back, threatening to spread lower and cup the swell of his arse.

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasped, swallowing half the name in his throat. “Let me—let me finish. I can—”

“Shut up,” Geralt said. He held Jaskier closer, burying his face into Jaskier’s chest as he kept working his hips. “Just like this.”

Jaskier shuddered and nodded. He could do this. Oh, he could do this. Listening to Geralt’s rough breath, _feeling_ the way that his cock was trembling just from this. Just from rutting together like they were nothing but frothing teenagers.

“Geralt—I love you,” Jaskier muttered, right into his hair. “Thank you—thank you, you saved me. I—” Jaskier gasped as Geralt rutted against him, his own cock still sensitive.

“I’d do it again,” Geralt promised, squeezing around the back of Jaskier’s neck and pulling him closer. “But don’t make me.”

Jaskier trembled. He could have cried. All he knew was in the next moment, Geralt’s rough thrusts went to sputtering jolts, and he was coming. He was coming so beautifully, groaning right into Jaskier’s ear as he did. Only when he finished did he finally let Jaskier go, but Jaskier didn’t go far.

He sat back in Geralt’s lap and cupped his face, just to look at him for a moment. Geralt was panting, his face red, and still coming down from his high. He met Jaskier’s gaze just as fervently as Jaskier gave it, and for that moment, all they could do was stare at each other.

“Let’s go _home_ ,” Jaskier whispered.

Ah. That was right. That’s what Geralt wanted to hear him say, just to know that Jaskier _knew_. It wasn’t Jaskier and Geralt, it was _them_. Corvo Bianco wasn’t just a place where Jaskier could come and go as he pleased, it was his home, where he had a bed and a hearth to return to.

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed. He pulled Jaskier into a tight hug, and Jaskier returned it.

“No theatrics. No heroics. Just— _home_.”

“Yeah.” A promise, this time. “I’ll take you home.”

They would rest. By morning, Geralt was sure he’d be more than fine for the long journey it would be. No theatrics. No heroics. They were going home, because mortality was suddenly very, incredibly real, and Geralt couldn’t go another moment without having Jaskier as close as he could possibly be.

It took them four days to get home. Back to the vineyards and the beautiful view, the comfortable house. It was nothing short of a manor, and while Geralt wasn’t so comfortable in the lavishing living, Jaskier thrived in it. It was the perfect reward for four days of sleeping in woods and off roads. All of Jaskier’s favorite things were right here on this land, and now that he knew it was home, the way his face lit up when they came into view was something extravagant.

Geralt tightened his hold around Jaskier’s waist and kissed his neck. They’d been riding leisurely, where Jaskier leaned back on Geralt for support. Plenty of space to turn and kiss, to _feel_. Other travelers might have had looks to spare, but neither one of them minded. Not now. There was time on other days to care more than they did. For the moment, all either of them cared about was a nice, hot bath and that beautiful bed with silken sheets.

“Welcome home,” Geralt muttered. “The bath’s big enough for two. Care to join me?”

Jaskier grinned. “Why, I don’t believe we’ve ever had the pleasure.”

Geralt snorted. “Join me,” he said. Not a question.

Jaskier agreed. They only had to finish the trek to the house, and the only thing that would stand between them and each other was the bath.

Since they’d left the inn, Geralt had mostly healed. He didn’t need help getting down from Roach, and he didn’t need help to stable her. He always took care of her, himself, even with the plethora of people on the property who could do it for him. Because he didn’t need any help, Jaskier was free to go into the house. _Their_ house. He would get the bath started and make sure it was nice and hot by the time Geralt got there. They’d both been looking forward to this.

It didn’t take too painfully long. Geralt didn’t make any stops between the stable and the house, nor did he make any stops inside the house. He went right to the private bath, making sure the door was shut tight behind him. The room already smelled of different oils and soaps; Jaskier really knew what he was doing, and he managed to do it gracefully. When he was focused, Jaskier always had a certain look about him. Not even Geralt’s arrival tore him away from creating the perfect bath.

“I could use help with my armor,” Geralt said, and that brought Jaskier’s attention to him.

“That’s new,” Jaskier said, suddenly standing up. “You’ve never—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt admonished. He was in no mood to listen to explanations or give them. He’d been waiting four days for this, and he was going to take it for every little thing it was worth.

Jaskier didn’t argue, either. He walked over to Geralt and yelped when Geralt grabbed him, but he never pulled away. He met Geralt in that fierce kiss he gave and melted against him, curling fingers up through his hair. They were both in desperate need of this bath, but they had all the time in the world. They were safe, here. They could spare a moment for a kiss, and with a kiss alone, Jaskier was already starting to feel a familiar warmth.

He pulled away quickly to get to work, tugging at laces and straps and buckles to get Geralt’s armor off of him. Geralt just stood there as he worked, more concerned with watching than he was helping, and that was just fine. Jaskier was just as taken with his new task as Geralt was with watching him do it. There was something horribly intimate about it, letting Jaskier remove his armor. If showed Jaskier how it all fell apart, and if Geralt didn’t trust Jaskier the way that he did, he would never let this happen. It showed a weakness that could be exploited.

There was a trust between them that was hotter than any touch or kiss they could share. It burned brighter. It was the spark of transition as Geralt’s last piece of armor fell from his top, so Jaskier dropped to his knees. It looked like worship, the way Jaskier started on his boots. Geralt couldn’t help but swallow the lump in his throat. He could imagine this in every other way it could be, with Jaskier naked, stroking his own cock with Geralt’s down his throat, and it still wouldn’t quite be so intimate.

Geralt stepped out of his boots, and before Jaskier could start on the laces of his trousers, Geralt pulled him back up to his feet. With nothing more than a glance, Geralt had everything he needed to continue. He cupped Jaskier’s jaw, dragging his touch down along Jaskier’s neck as he leaned in and kissed him, again. It started slow, almost chase as Geralt’s touch just sunk lower to pluck Jaskier’s doublet apart. Geralt nipped at Jaskier’s lips as he moved closer, shrugging the doublet off of Jaskier’s shoulders.

Jaskier shuddered as Geralt tugged at his lower lip. All he did was kiss back, standing there as Geralt stripped him down. It was slow, sensual. The brush of Geralt’s knuckles against his chest was enough to leave Jaskier warm, trembling. Geralt tugged his laces apart until his undershirt was loose and open, and only then did they pull apart. Once the shirt was on the floor, they were kissing again. They moved together, a practiced dance of heads tilting and lips pressing. While Geralt worked on Jaskier’s trousers, Jaskier returned the favor.

When Jaskier’s trousers dropped, his smalls followed, and Geralt all but jumped him. There was suddenly a hard grip on his arse, pulling him closer. Their bodies pressed flushed together, and Jaskier groaned. He tried to push Geralt’s trousers down, but all he could do was wrap his arms around Geralt’s neck to ground himself.

“Bath,” Jaskier gasped.

“Quickly,” Geralt pressed. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand this, but he had to.

He let Jaskier go, however reluctantly, and worked on his own clothes while Jaskier went to the bath. Geralt followed after; they’d worry about the pile of dirty clothes later. For the moment, all Geralt cared about was having his hands back on Jaskier. They were both naked, and they were _both_ already aroused.

Geralt sunk down into the bath, and all at once, realized that Jaskier was in no better a state than he was. It didn’t take even a second before Jaskier was in his lap. He felt the bump of Jaskier’s aching cock, and then they were kissing. Jaskier’s entire body rolled against him, melted into him, and Geralt was helpless but to move back. He gripped Jaskier’s waist with one hand and cupped his jaw with the other. For only a moment, Geralt let himself melt into the feeling, the heat of the water, the heat of Jaskier. Once that moment was over, he pushed Jaskier back.

“ _Quickly_ ,” he repeated, almost growling.

The sound of Geralt’s voice in his throat had Jaskier shivering, but he couldn’t lose himself just yet. If they were going to keep themselves from doing just that, they did the only thing they could do—separate. After that, it was just utilitarian. It was just getting the grime off, the dirt, and the dried blood.

While Geralt finished first, he didn’t leave the room. He climbed out of the tub to grab himself a towel, but he didn’t leave. If anything, he watched Jaskier through the reflection of a warped looking glass as he leaned over the edge of the tub. The final part was always the most tedious part; Jaskier never wanted help, but that didn’t mean Geralt wanted to just leave him. He wanted to be there the moment Jaskier was finished.

In the meantime, he dried himself off. When he was dry, he just took a seat on a stool and waited. He listened. All of Jaskier’s little grunts and breathy noises as he worked. Always diligent. Always perfect. Geralt wouldn’t look back at their beginning days and regret the way he treated Jaskier; that wasn’t going to accomplish anything. What he could do was make up for it. He was becoming intimately aware of mortality, and the idea that he would lose Jaskier one day was terrifying. If that day was to come, then he would spend every day in between doing what he could.

When Jaskier finished, he slumped into the side of the tub for a moment just to breathe. That was when Geralt finally turned to look at him, to see the flush in his face. His lips were red from how he chewed them when he focused, and he focused intensely.

“I’m ready,” Jaskier muttered, barely able to collect his voice enough to speak.

Geralt didn’t reply with words. He picked up a towel and stepped up to the side of the tub. In response, Jaskier stood up. He just expected Geralt to wrap him in the towel and maybe help dry him off. However, once Jaskier was wrapped, Geralt hoisted him right up into the air. Jaskier yelped, but only in surprise. A second later, he had relaxed against Geralt’s chest as Geralt carried him, bridal style, into the next room over.

Their room. With their bed.

Geralt walked right up to it and dropped Jaskier into it. The towel unfurled, and Jaskier was left open, on display, and chilled. But Geralt followed a second later, settling himself between Jaskier’s thighs. He crowded against Jaskier, until Jaskier’s legs were up over his waist, their hips pressed together, and Geralt leaned over with his elbows right at Jaskier’s head. Jaskier’s own touch was more tentative, as he just dragged the pads of his fingers along the sharp line of Geralt’s jaw.

“I love you,” Geralt gruffed, and then he cut off any gasped and obnoxious reply Jaskier could think of with a sharp kiss.

Jaskier arched against him as his eyes closed and he kissed back. Geralt started to rock against him, their hips together, their _cocks_ together. Jaskier trembled underneath him, tugging at his hair with one hand as the other searched out for the nightstand blindly. Geralt eventually pulled away to get the oil for himself, and once he had it, he fell to the bed beside Jaskier, only to pull him closer, half on top of him. Geralt wrapped a firm arm around Jaskier to keep him steady while he poured oil over his fingers.

At the same time, Jaskier all but assaulted Geralt’s neck. He spread his thighs out, hooking a leg up over Geralt’s hips to make sure they were as close as possible. Every shift, every little jolt of pleasure had them moving again, together, their cocks pressed up between them and both achingly hot. While Jaskier dragged his lips down the column of Geralt’s neck, Geralt worked his oiled fingers between Jaskier’s cheeks.

Jaskier gasped at the first press of Geralt’s calloused fingers. Geralt didn’t waste any time, hooking the first finger into him. The slide was so easy—Jaskier was so _open_ , already, from his time in the bath. Geralt couldn’t help but moan, shifting so he could capture Jaskier in another searing kiss. Jaskier moaned for him, rocked into his hips in a sudden and desperate search for friction. Geralt reciprocated, rutting their cocks together and groaning right into Jaskier’s lips.

“ _More_ ,” Jaskier gasped out, returning to the kiss immediately after.

Geralt wasn’t about to disappoint. He rolled them over, pressing Jaskier back down into the mattress as he worked a second finger into him. Jaskier’s back arched, he _moaned_ , and his legs spread out farther. He wanted Geralt closer, more room, more _everything_. Geralt gave it to him. He fucked Jaskier on his fingers, working them deeper and deeper with each press forward. He spread them apart, carefully attuned to every shift and jolt in Jaskier’s body.

“Geralt—” Jaskier moaned. “It—too long,” he muttered. “I need you.”

Geralt stroked Jaskier’s hair back and kissed his forehead. “Just a little longer.”

Jaskier’s eyes closed as he groaned, another finger prodding at his entrance. He spread right open for it. Geralt pressed deep, stretching Jaskier open slowly, carefully. Jaskier’s hips bucked down, desperate for more, for whatever he could get. He needed to feel Geralt inside of him, their hips pressed up close together. Already, he was moaning at the thought. Geralt’s thick cock against him. Inside of him. Stretching him open and hitting him nice and deep.

“ _Geralt._ _”_ Jaskier was all but demanding he move faster, and Geralt did his best to accommodate.

“Be patient,” Geralt ordered. “I told you—I’ll take care of you.”

He dragged hot kisses down Jaskier’s face, along his jaw, to where he rested against the crook of his neck and sucked on his skin while he twisted his fingers deeper. Jaskier’s thighs fell apart and his hips bucked. Geralt met every single jolting movement with his own, forcing his fingers deeper, wider apart. Jaskier’s head lolled back, and his jaw just fell open with a litany of moans. After Geralt finished sucking a blooming purple mark right on Jaskier’s neck, his descent continued. Jaskier’s pleasure only grew.

Jaskier twisted himself, trying to push his chest forward when Geralt’s lips hit it. He sucked over Jaskier’s skin, leaving marks in his wake as he sunk down farther. Never once did he stop working his fingers. The way they pressed together meant every jolt was just another way for Jaskier to rut his cock into Geralt’s abdomen. There was pleasure from every angle, just thrumming through his body, lighting him aflame. He gasped when Geralt bit down, nipped at the line between his pecs.

Geralt was getting off on this, too, and that sent Jaskier to a whole new level of _high_. He could feel how hard Geralt was against his hip, how Geralt’s cock was leaking and twitching. He was hard. He was _aroused_ just watching Jaskier, just knowing that he was the one doing this to him. There was a flush through Jaskier’s cheeks that dipped all the way down to his chest, and Geralt couldn’t help but kiss over it. He sucked more marks into Jaskier’s skin, biting down where he could get a bit of flesh between his teeth.

And Jaskier responded to all of it. He had a tight grip on Geralt’s shoulders, his nails digging and scratching every time a new rush of pleasure took him. His entire body trembled, and every moan was turning breathier than the one before it. Jaskier was losing himself, and Geralt was there to pick up all the pieces.

He pressed his fingers in deep, spreading them out one more time. It was enough to make Jaskier’s hips twitch, his cock spurt as Geralt pressed against that spot inside of him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathed. “Fuck—Geralt, _please_ , I’m ready. Fuck me—I need you; I need you—” he cupped Geralt’s jaw and tried to bring him closer.

Geralt responded instantly. He pulled his fingers back and shifted up to grab the oil again. He knelt back between Jaskier’s thighs and stroked himself, making sure Jaskier had the perfect view of it. Geralt had a nice, thick cock. The first time Jaskier had ever had his mouth around it, he’d struggled to work down to the base. He could take it with ease, now, and he longed for it. He moaned, just watching Geralt’s hips buck into his own hand, finding a brief moment of reprieve in the warmth of his own hand.

Jaskier spread his thighs out wider as Geralt came closer. Geralt didn’t even have to ask; just the sight of Jaskier willingly opening up for him was more arousing than anything. The trust. The _warmth._ Jaskier hiked up his own leg, resting it on the jut of Geralt’s hip, as Geralt took hold of himself and guided forward. The first press of his cockhead had Jaskier moaning. It was _everything_ he could have ever wanted. A long time coming. It’d been too long since he had this, and now he could have it.

Geralt worked slowly, rocking his hips to chase every inch deeper. Jaskier opened beautifully. He bloomed, practically, under Geralt’s touch. And once they were settled together, Geralt put his hands on Jaskier’s chest, instead, to keep him still as the made those last few inches. Until their hips were pressed together, and with it, Jaskier’s breath pressed right out of his lungs when he moaned.

“Fuck,” Geralt breathed. “Look at you. _Jaskier_ ,” he whispered, leaning down and crowding over top of him. “ _My_ Jaskier.”

Jaskier shuddered, nodding. “Yours.” He agreed. “Fuck me, Geralt. Please, please, I—”

Geralt shushed him with a hard kiss and rocking into him all at once. Jaskier let out little breathy grunts, punctuated through their kiss and with each one of Geralt’s slow, thorough thrusts. Each one punched the air right out of Jaskier, left him breathless and boneless. His back arched, and he tried to roll his own hips down to meet those thrusts. Every drag of Geralt’s cock lit him on fire, had his own cock twitching and dripping with his arousal. It was more than he could have dreamed of.

Geralt was thick inside of him, splitting him apart each time he bottomed out. Jaskier could feel the stretch, the slight burn. He could feel everything, straight down to the veins in Geralt’s cock as he pressed against Jaskier’s most sensitive areas. Jaskier reached for Geralt, desperately clawing at his shoulders, his back, and through his hair. Anything to keep himself grounded. To keep himself _here_ for the moment, like the pleasure alone would be enough to send him elsewhere.

With the way Jaskier was clutching onto him, how his back arched, Geralt couldn’t help himself. He reached around the small of Jaskier’s hips and yanked him up, sitting back on the bed with Jaskier now wrapped up in his lap. Jaskier cried out, throwing his head back as he sank deeper into Geralt’s cock with the new angle. Geralt didn’t stop. He rocked into Jaskier, pressing down on his hips to make sure he got as deep as he could each time they came together.

Jaskier trembled in his lap, rutting his own hips wildly. Chasing his own pleasure. His cock was trapped between them, grinding along the ridges in Geralt’s abdomen with every movement Jaskier made. It was almost too much for Jaskier to handle but held himself together long enough to get his lips back to Geralt’s, taking him for another round of hot, heavy kissing. Geralt pressed back, tangling his own fingers in Jaskier’s hair to keep him close. He tilted Jaskier’s head right where he wanted it and held him there.

Jaskier cried into the kiss, his whole body starting to shiver as his orgasm washed over him. Unexpected, but not unwanted. Geralt held him close while he shivered, while his hips worked wildly, and he clenched down. Geralt’s cock twitched inside of him, and Jaskier could _feel_ it, all of it. Every movement. Every shift of Geralt against him. The press of their chests. The way Geralt’s abdomen clenched and rolled as he breathed, as he strained. Jaskier’s orgasm didn’t stop. He came in spurts between them, shivering until Geralt picked them up and pressed Jaskier back down into the mattress.

Before Geralt could pull out, Jaskier was quick to lock his legs around Geralt’s waist. He kept Geralt close with arms around his neck, their foreheads pressed together so their breath would mingle. Jaskier was still trembling through the force of his orgasm, but he gulped and tried to talk through it.

“Keep going, big guy,” Jaskier breathed. “I can take it.”

A visible tremble took hold of Geralt, and he nearly moaned just from the words alone. He surged forward and locked Jaskier in another heated kiss. This time, there was tongue, the clacking of teeth. Anything. Everything. Geralt continued to rock into Jaskier’s open, willing body. He was hot, slick—positively dripping in the oil. Geralt groaned into their kiss, his own pleasure taking control. It only burned hotter with each time he sank into Jaskier, into that tight heat he offered.

Jaskier was all but limp beneath him, his cock already soft against his thigh, but he wanted. He still moaned when Geralt worked him just right, still cried out as their skin slapped together. He tangled his fingers into Geralt’s hair and egged him on with just the subtle look of his eye—that enticingly hot gaze that he had. Begging Geralt to come closer. To _come_.

Geralt was never one to disappoint. It didn’t take much longer for his own orgasm to spill over the edge. He broke away from the kiss in a moan, threading his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and holding his head down into the mattress just because he _could_. His hips stuttered, and he wanted to make sure Jaskier watched every second of it. His muscles rippled from the strain, his jaw dropped open, and his brows arched from the hot pleasure that strummed through him. Jaskier clenched down around him, nothing but a little menace trying to milk him for all he was worth.

“Fuck,” Geralt groaned. “ _Fuck_ , you’re just—” He couldn’t finish, not as his orgasm continued, his hips bucked relentlessly forward into Jaskier.

Jaskier’s head rolled back, and he cried out with Geralt’s last, hard thrust. Then, Geralt went still above him, dropping his head down into Jaskier’s chest to pepper him in idle, loving kisses. Jaskier just took that minute to breathe, to find some air in his lungs again.

“Geralt,” he muttered. “I—yeah. Yeah.” Jaskier didn’t know what to say. He just rested against the pillows, watching as Geralt kissed him. Kissed his chest. Trailed those kisses up to his neck, along his jaw, until they were kissing again. It was something slow and sweet and beautiful. Geralt was still inside of him, their hips still rocking together. And they were just kissing, wrapped up in each other.

When Geralt pulled back, he pressed one final kiss into Jaskier’s cheek. “We should stay for a while,” he said.

Jaskier nodded. “A long while. When can I convince you to retire?”

Geralt grinned. He leaned down, resting in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, and kissed his shoulder. “You’re convincing me,” he admitted. It was no indicator to how close Jaskier was to _winning_ this conversation, but Geralt was definitely capable of changing his mind. If a Witcher only retired with his death, then maybe Jaskier was just going to have to be the blade. Geralt would remain afterward when the Witcher was gone. They might have a moment of peace, after that.

**Author's Note:**

> 𓆏 Froge Bounces 𓆏  
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> 


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